Written in Dead Wax (26 page)

I looked around me. The solid walls of records on all sides were occasionally broken up by an alcove or deeper shelf, discreetly illuminated and containing hi-fi components. I saw a turntable and two groups of very expensive-looking valve amplifiers.

I couldn’t see any speakers, though.

Mr Hibiki reached in his pocket and took out the key and handed it to me. I unlocked the handcuffs and gave him the case. While he opened it I massaged my pale, chafed wrist. “Very nice,” said Mr Hibiki, looking into the case. He looked up at me. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Some coffee, please.” I rubbed my wrist.

Atsushi the assistant went over to another little alcove I hadn’t noticed, which contained a flask and some cups and saucers. He took the lid off the flask and instantly I could smell the coffee. I perked up as soon as it hit my nose. He poured two cups, set them neatly on saucers, then gave one to me and one to Mr Hibiki, who ignored it.

He had taken the record out of the case.

I’d sealed its cover in a mylar sleeve, which he now carefully peeled open and removed.

I sipped the coffee. It was excellent, and fresh. It couldn’t have been made more than a few minutes earlier. Mr Hibiki weighed the cover in his hand, admiring it. “Flawless,” he said.

“I think it spent most of its life sandwiched between two other albums and never even saw the light of day.” I said.

He nodded and carefully slid the record out of its plastic bag. He leaned closer to a standing lamp and examined the vinyl in the discreet pool of light it threw. I realised there were no windows in the room.

His face grew serious as he squinted intently at the label, then he turned the record over and checked the other side, carefully inspecting the label again. Finally he grunted with satisfaction and slipped it back into the plastic bag.

He fingered the little irregularities left by the torn perforation strip at the top of the bag. He looked at me. “It was sealed when you got it?”

“Yes, sorry about that.” In some ways the ultimate collector’s experience is to get the sealed copy and open it yourself. It’s the holy grail. Any tasteless comparisons to deflowering virgins are to be vigorously avoided. “But I had to open it. To check that it was okay.”

“Of course.” He smiled to show it was all fine. “What kind of cartridge do you use?”

“Ortofon Rohmann.” This was a top of the line thousand-pound-plus cartridge that I’d got in a complicated swap including a mint original copy of the Beatles’ White Album I’d found at a boot fair. But basically the thrust of his question was to check that I hadn’t played the record using a rusty knitting needle. He seemed satisfied.

“Very nice,” he said. He set the LP aside and sipped his coffee. “How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good.”

I said, “Do you mind if I look around?”

He smiled. “No. Be my guest.”

I went to one of the alcoves and inspected the turntable. It was a Roksan Xerxes, a British machine. I’d heard one at a hi-fi show once. Its rhythmic accuracy was unsurpassed. The cartridge was Japanese, a dizzyingly expensive Koetsu. I went to the alcove containing a set of valve amps. They were WAVACs, also Japanese, using directly heated 833As. The highest of the high end.

I still couldn’t see any speakers, though.

I looked through his records. All jazz, of course. There was one shelf that was full of just original Blue Notes. “May I?” I said.

He waved his hand. “Please.”

I took out a few albums and looked at them. A thought occurred to me. I said, “What do you do about playing flat-edge LPs?”

“That’s the flat-edge turntable you were looking at. The regular turntable is over there.” He pointed across the room where, I realised, another alcove housed another identical Roksan Xerxes. Well, why not? If you had the money. In an adjacent, smaller alcove was the small black control box that switched one turntable or the other into the signal path that fed the amps. I examined it. It was a passive unit made by David Heaton.

Still no sign of the speakers, though. I scanned the room as I returned to my chair. Mr Hibiki smiled at me politely. “Is there anything you’d like to hear?”

“Everything,” I said, and we both laughed.

“Well, perhaps later,” he said. “But now let’s listen to this.” He picked up
Easy Come, Easy Go
and handed the album to Atsushi who took it and went over to the turntable. He took the record out of the sleeve with the skill of a man who had done it before.

As he cued the LP up on the turntable, I was still searching the room with my gaze. Where were the bloody speakers?

“So you’ve had a chance to listen to it?” said Mr Hibiki.

“Yes, sorry, but I had to.”

“No, that’s fine. I understand.” He sipped his coffee and set the cup down again. “So how did it sound?”

“Absolutely mint. High-quality vinyl with no noise, no pressing flaws. Just perfect.”

Atsushi switched the turntable on and lowered the tone arm onto the record. It began to play.

The noise that came out was the most grotesque, shrieking cacophony imaginable. It sounded like someone had gone over the playing surface with a professional sander, obliterating the microgrooves.

We all stared at each other.

The din continued. Sizzling distortion. A galaxy of white noise.

Atsushi had quickly stepped back from the turntable as though it was an animal that might bite him. I got to my feet and went over to the turntable and lifted the arm off the record. Silence. They were both staring at me. I could distinctly feel the force of their gaze, at the nape of my neck, between my sweating shoulder blades.

I bent down and inspected the tone arm.

As I had suspected, there on the tip of the stylus was a tiny ball of grey fluff that had accumulated from playing dozens of records over a period of weeks. I put my mouth near and blew gently. The puff of air carried the dust ball floating serenely away. I lifted the tone arm again and lowered it onto the run-in groove.

First, smooth silence as the stylus rode inwards, and then music filled the room. Warm, rich, beautiful music.

Mr Hibiki was staring at Atsushi who was looking distinctly seasick.

I sensed a restructuring of the chain of command some time soon.

The music sounded wonderful. As I sat down I realised it was coming from above. I looked up and finally I got it. The graceful curving panels of wood rising upwards from the walls formed an enclosure for a horn-loaded speaker. The whole ceiling was a speaker.

In fact the whole room was one.

Ask not where the speaker is. You’re sitting in it.

Perhaps at some signal from his boss, Atsushi made himself scarce. Now it was just Mr Hibiki and I sitting in the room, listening. I could see him relaxing, enjoying the music. When it reached the end of the side I went to the turntable and turned it over.

“This is very good,” he said, watching me. “In fact, it could hardly be improved.”

“There is one anomaly.” I thought I’d better bring it up before we got there. “On the last track on this side, the vocal by Rita Mae Pollini. There’s a tiny rogue… noise.” He was watching me politely, attentively, taking it all in. “But it’s a noise from the original session. Not damage or any kind of pressing flaw.” He nodded.

“I think it’s a music stand falling over,” I lied.

We listened as it arrived and he nodded again. “It’s definitely on the master tape,” he said. “I believe you’re right. A music stand falling.” He smiled at me. “If anything, it adds to the charm of the recording. As if we’re there during the date.”

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. The record ended and Mr Hibiki got up and switched the turntable off. He put the LP back in the sleeve and went over to one of the shelves of records. I’d noticed earlier there was a thin strip of paper sticking out here. He removed this marker slip and slid the record into its correct place on the shelf to join the complete run of Hathor recordings, all thirteen of them. Fourteen now.

As he did so, an odd thing happened. I could see his whole body visibly relax, his shoulders sagging luxuriously in relief. He sighed, a long, low, quiet sigh, and a strange wild smile spread over his face. It was my first glimpse of the unguarded Mr Hibiki, and I could see the child inside the man. It was gone in an instant, but I’d never forget that smile, a mad savage smile of victory.

With
Easy Come, Easy Go
, he had the complete set. A collector’s dream come true.

I wondered when—or if—he’d ever play it again.

He sat down and nodded affably. “Well done. Thank you.” Atsushi came back into the room holding an iPhone. He gave it to me. The website for the money transfer had been set up ready. I typed in my bank details and accessed my account. Then I passed the phone to Atsushi who gave it to Mr Hibiki.

Mr Hibiki entered his own details and then got up and handed the phone to me, bypassing Atsushi, who was looking more and more unhappy. I studied the screen. The transfer was in progress. Quite rapidly a message appeared, indicating that the transaction was complete. I stared at it. The total was given there on the screen.

My head swam. I couldn’t absorb the figure. I had to put my fingertip down on the screen to cover up two zeros, then move it along and cover up two more zeros, and slowly count them in this way.

When I finally had the number straight in my head I went to a currency conversion website and with a push of a button I converted the sum from yen into dollars.

It came to just over a million.

I pushed a few more buttons and converted it into the sterling equivalent. Then I left the browser and used the phone as a phone. I called Tinkler’s number, including the international dialling code for England. It only rang twice, sounding hollow and distant, before he answered.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Okay,” said Tinkler. “I’m ready. Right. Right. Yup. I’m ready.”

I waited patiently. He was lying in his hospital bed with my phone, his own phone and a crib sheet giving him all the information he needed to access my bank account. I waited while he made the call, hearing his nervous voice responding to the security questions from the bank. Basically, he had to pretend to be me.

Finally he finished the other call and came back on the line. “The money’s come through,” he said. “My god, there’s a lot of it isn’t there? Even the girl at the call centre was impressed. I’m in love with her, by the way.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Right,” said Tinkler. “Now I’m going to use all that information you gave me to access your account and siphon off every penny and steal it for myself. Steal it, do you hear me?” He laughed maniacally, then added, “I hope that’s all right.”

“Good luck with all that.”

“Right. Okay. You take care.” He hung up.

I switched the phone off. My palms were damp. I looked at Mr Hibiki, who was watching me with polite interest. “Sorry about that,” I said.

“No problem. It’s perfectly all right.”

I handed the phone to Atsushi, who took it and left. I breathed deeply and relaxed. On one level the whole thing had been a complete farce, of course. If they’d actually wanted to rob me, they could have just taken the record and hit me with a baseball bat. I was alone in this house, in an unknown part of an unknown country.

“Would you like something to eat?” he said.

I shook my head. “They fed me pretty well on the plane, and I imagine they’re going to feed me pretty well going back.”

He checked his watch. “There’s plenty of time. But it’s quite a long drive back to the airport. If you’re like me, you may want to get there early.” He smiled. I’d been dismissed. I stood up. We shook hands again. I turned and looked at the shelf where the record now stood. I experienced a sudden strange, painful pang of loss.

I felt like I’d gone to the vet and left a beloved pet there to be put down. I steeled myself and turned away. Perhaps he read something in my face because he said, “You should stop in the Zen garden on your way out. It will make you feel better. There’s plenty of time.” He patted me on the arm. “Goodbye.”

Atsushi was waiting for me in the doorway. He escorted me out.

Now it was over I felt a tremendous let down. It was weird. Even getting paid turned out to be a disappointment. As I walked away from that small room where Hibiki sat, all I had was a frustrating sense of things unresolved. Questions unanswered.

Questions that would never be answered now.

First there was the matter of the money. The amount of it. No piece of vinyl, in and of itself, was worth what he’d paid me. Yet he’d paid it happily. If anything, he had the air of a man getting a bargain. What he’d received from me was clearly vastly more valuable than what I’d just received from him.

Why?

I wanted to know. I
needed
to know. I had a sense of huge, tumultuous events going on around me, but just beyond the edge of my vision, just out of range of my hearing.

Some matter of enormity was transpiring, brushing past me, close enough to touch. Like an invisible ship sailing by on a silent sea. Vast and ghostly. And I had no idea what it was. And now I was never likely to.

Plus there was that small matter of the “session anomaly”, the rogue noise that haunted side two.

Music stand falling over, my ass.

It was now very clear in my mind that it was a gunshot.

We went down the stone staircase, through the wide hall that spanned the house, into the corridor beyond. Here on the right was the glass wall looking out into the Zen garden.

There was a young woman standing in the garden. A woman with short black hair in a black dress. For one aching second I thought she looked just like Nevada.

Then she turned.

It was Nevada.

What had appeared to be floor-to-ceiling windows were actually a series of sliding doors. I slid one of them open and stepped into the garden. The air was cool and damp. A faint, fine mist hung in the air as if a phantom rain was falling. She looked at me through the mist. Then she came over and touched my lapel. “You’re wearing your suit. The one I got you. It looks good on you.”